Between the shadow and the soul
by tersaseda
Summary: "Why had she taken so long to get to this point? To this realization. To this spot in the living room, toes hesitating on the cusp between the shadows and the light, a dawning rising between her empty bed and the occupied couch." Post-defeat of the Wicked Witch, Emma makes her choice.


The night was calm and quiet, a welcomed change from the chaos that had engulfed them not even a day ago. That morning they had finally defeated Zelena. They had closed in on her and battled it out in the streets of Storybrooke: mortar and monkeys flying, bricks and bombs, asphalt and ash as Zelena's and Regina's fireballs had raged and consumed.

And hers.

"I did it."

Emma spoke it aloud, buried in the safety of her blankets but feeling none of their weight. Because she had to say it, had to make it a reality to herself still. A fact rather than a pinch; one whose truth bloomed in the darkness surrounding her as it rang deep with all the hope and family she finally felt coursing through her body.

_Magic is about emotion._ That's what Gold had said.

And he'd been right.

When she had seen Zelena's unrelenting drive to destroy David and Mary Margaret and Regina and…Hook…that's when the blistering heat had flashed throughout her body, pulsing in her heart and fingertips as she'd raised her hands and pushed everything out, focused and blinding, at the green bitch. The look on Zelena's face when the wave struck her from Emma's outstretched hands, had been shocked, bewildered, and most of all, short-lived before she melted away in the middle of the street. Nothing left of her but a cracked brooch.

"I did it," Emma repeated as her grateful thoughts turned to her family. They'd all almost died_—she'd_ almost died. But she'd saved them. And this was real. She, Emma Swan, she was magical and had defeated the Wicked Witch of the West. She was Prince Charming's and Snow White's daughter. She had a baby brother. She had a son and friends and…

"I have him."

This truth was spoken the softest of all. Not because it was any less important…but because…_hell_…he'd nearly died today throwing himself between her and a flying monkey. And what if he had? The answering ache in her chest, all the proof that stepping out of bed and crossing the short distance to the couch where he slept, was the _only_ reason she had ever needed: she needed him.

The moonlight painted his face in pale stripes and caught in the tips of his dark lashes. He looked peaceful, one of the bravest men she had ever known finally able to set aside the fight that had burned inside him and just…sleep. Such a normal thing to do.

_It could wait. I can tell him in the morning._ The self-preservation kicking in in the disguise of not wanting to be a burden (old habits and all that).

But after today, she knew she'd almost been too late and that no—it could not.

Reaching out a hand, she noticed it trembled. She had never done this before. Battling dragons, yes. Breaking curses, obviously. But telling a man she loved him when she knew he'd loved her a long, long time before? Or that he'd won her heart with his truth not trickery, his promise offered but never forced?

Emma's breath caught.

How had she ever seen him as _just_ a pirate? How had he endured her saying that to him again and again without snapping at her, without throwing her own insecurities and past back in her face? Without leaving her side and damning her to do it all on her own, walking away like every other man she'd ever loved?

And why had she taken so long to get to this point? To this realization. To this spot in the living room, toes hesitating on the cusp between the shadows and the light, a dawning rising between her empty bed and the occupied couch.

"Emma?"

The sleep-roughened voice broke through her thoughts as she finally registered the warmth spilling down her cheeks, and she stood there, just stood there, feeling more off-balance than she'd ever expected he, of all people, could do.

"I…" was all she could think of to say.

There was a rustling of sheets and soon he was silhouetted against the window. "Emma?" he asked again, worry now laced through the lilt. "Are you alright?" She could feel him scrutinizing her, and judging by the fact that she hardly ever cried, of course he would ask that.

"Y-yes, I'm fine," she said, blinking away the tears that were blurring her sight.

"It's the middle of the night, love." His voice was soft yet wary, but it didn't feel like he wanted her to go away.

So she stepped closer until her feet bumped into his and she could see how he stilled, barely breathing. Waiting for her next move, always giving her the choice. Well, she'd made it.

"I know," she whispered. "I just…I didn't feel like waiting."

"For what?"

The point of no return. (She could do this—she beat the Wicked Witch.)

"To tell you that I love you."

If she'd thought he was still before, he seemed to be completely frozen now as he stared at her with the most unreadable expression, and not simply because it was shadowed from the night. One second passed, two, three, more. Still his eyes stayed locked on hers, intense and unwavering. She hoped he was seeing her as clearly as he had always been able to in the past, despite whether or not she'd wanted it. And at this moment, more than ever, she did. For him to see everything, all of her. The lost girl, the savior, the mother. Broken, strong, healing. As his.

God, what was he thinking? "Killian, I—"

But before she could finish, her voice acting like some kind of stimulant, he moved in a rush, hand cupping her head, fingers twisting her hair, as his mouth crashed down on hers and caught her gasp with a returned one of his own. God, she had been lying to herself that kissing him once would have ever been enough.

"Say it again, love," he breathed against her, "_please_."

"I love you." It felt right to say.

The sound that keened from him balanced somewhere between sob and laugh. "Gods, I love you, too."

And as she walked them backwards to the bed, undressing each other and finding freedom and a safe harbor in the revealing night…

As he hovered over her, covering her with touches that spoke of tenderness and healing, desire and completeness…

As what followed was easy, so uninhibitedly easy that she was soaring, imploding, his name the only voice she could give to this truth of their creation…

"_Killian."_

And that from somewhere far away, yet incredibly close, an echo burrowed against her neck and resonated in the empty patches of her heart, filling them…

"_Emma."_

This was everything. This was home.

And it was _magical_.


End file.
